


Poetic Justice

by LMX



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Delirium tremens, Dissociation, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Forced to kill, Gen, Injury, Nightmares, Slavery, ring fighting, unexpected heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMX/pseuds/LMX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three are taken as political pawns by someone who knows their vices, and how to make punishments of them</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a Musketeers Kink prompt, here: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=2581998#cmt2581998. I've taken more than a few liberties with the blast furnace description, the gangway would likely be covered, or at least fenced, but let's imagine the people who run this furnace are not nice people and don't care overly about their workers' survival.

The heat of the blast furnace's single chimney was a physical blow in every circuit Athos was forced to walk along the long gangway to its nightmarish maw. It sapped strength, drank bodily fluids and left a man baking in his own salts as he worked beside it. There were troughs of water but no time to drink from them as the endless stream of loaded barrows were emptied into the top of the furnace's chimney and returned to the store only to be loaded with charcoal and ore for another trip.

The shakes from a lifetime of wine taken too liberally had driven Athos to his knees more than once, tipping his barrow and its load aside, risking a fall from the great high gangway that would surely only end in death. The path was wide enough that he was simply passed by the next wretched soul, ignored until he could make his feet again, reload his barrow and rejoin the chain. There was no whip-wielding intendant, only the surety that lying here in the oppressive heat would be a death sentence, bodies simply moved to clear the path for others.

As another circuit was completed and he burst back into the relative cool of the bunker where his barrow would be reloaded, Athos forced his exhausted mind to focus. Escape would only be possible out of the other side of the bunker, and he forced himself to identify the guards between himself and freedom. His limbs were weakened by the shakes and the relentless exhaustion, and the door had three men watching it. At the start of the shift then, when he was marginally better rested. Perhaps if he could find something to use in lieu of his sword, he might manage three. He would hope to find something to drink to soothe his body's woes, but even if he found nothing he had to try. The others were out there, he needed to save them.

-

The crowd was a single writhing, screaming entity, one Porthos couldn't block out not matter how hard he tried. They celebrated his triumphs, they mourned every blow landed against him, and they surged at every drop of blood spilled, baying like wolves.

Tonight, none of the blood on the ground was his own.

The thick leather gloves that protected his hands against his opponent's blades also hid the iron shackles they used to bind him when he wasn't in this bloody ring, and the boy at his feet - young, d'Artagnan's age at the oldest - had been felled with a single blow.

The fightmaster would be displeased, short fights meant less made from the attendant crowd in food and drink and betting fees. But he had no time to regret his decisions, he had only a few short minutes before the guards came and he would not waste that time by allow himself to dwell on the adulatory crowd, the boy at his feet or the punishment to come. This was his chance to study the building, its entrances and exits, the placement of guards.

He didn't have a way out of the cold rooms beneath, the rooms where they held him shackled to the wall. He didn't have an escape as yet, but when he did he would leave this place. In the meantime he could only hope that the others were alive, and that they knew he was coming for them.

-

It was easier sometimes, to drift. To let go of the movements of his body and the sensations that accompanied it and allow something else to swallow him whole. He had spent so long revelling in those sensations, trying out each one as if it were a sampler laid out before him, little of this was new to him.

But it was different. Somehow so different.

A slap to the face roused him, and he bit down on indignation as a sneering face loomed over his own. Retorts, he'd found, did nothing to aid his situation. He loved to be challenged by violent women, he remembered claiming so, and felt his gut roll in objection to the discordant thought. This was not like those times he could so easily remember.

As the woman above him pressed their faces together in a mockery of a kiss, Aramis reminded himself how important his continued good health was. If he wasn't healthy, he wasn't fighting fit, and the work he'd put into destroying the chain that tethered him by the ankle to this bed would be for nothing.

He carefully eased his mind away from his abused body as his 'client' rolled off him and started to redress, instead focusing his mind on the dashing rescue that would unfold as soon as he was free. The others would be safe, and unhurt and would be so pleased to see him they wouldn't ask what horrors he had suffered, and he would never be forced to speak of this.

They would be safe, he repeated to himself. Unhurt. Because he would rescue them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the outcomes of alcohol withdrawal as opined by the garrison's surgeon in this chapter are quite wrong, but giving up an alcohol dependancy, as with quitting any chemical addiction, should be undertaken with support and advice.

"Tell me you found him," Treville shouted down from his balcony as the last scouting team - visibly exhausted, their horses bedraggled with rain - clattered back into the garrison, calling him out of his office. The courtyard was packed with Musketeers, a noisy worried rabble.

Yves looked up from under the brim of his hat and nodded, his lips thin. "It was him, Aramis, two days ride towards Mantes just as the missive said!" came the reply. "Are we the last?"

"Yes," he called down, "The three are spread across the region, none closer than a day's ride. This plot was well hatched to separate our strength if we mount a rescue."

"The boy," Thierry asked from beside Yves as they dismounted. "Does he still live?"

"He does," the surgeon confirmed from the door to the garrison's barracks. His hands were bloody and his expression grim, Treville guessed he had been forced to bleed d'Artagnan again to bring down his fever. "He's strong, he'll live for his friends yet."

"We need to return them to him," Treville said firmly. "Yves, my office."

He sank into his chair, feeling his bones aching with tension as Yves took off his hat and stood stiffly before him. "Tell me."

"Aramis is being held in a whorehouse," Yves flinched at his own words, and Treville felt sure his face must express the same. "I did not dare expose myself to enter, but I know from one of their servants they make him suffer through... visitations. They seem to leave him physically unharmed, but I cannot speak to his state of mind. He is meagrely bound, but they seem to hold some threat over him. I think they may be bartering the lives of the others against his obedience."

"They use the same threat on Porthos; they imply they have d'Artagnan, injured but tended to, and the boy's life is forfeit if Porthos escapes. They must have seen him hurt before they were taken, to believe it so easily. I think Porthos would have attempted to save himself and trust the others with their own skins until he could reach them, but with d'Artagnan as hostage, he knows he is powerless."

"Can I ask..." Yves said quietly.

"They have Porthos in a fighting ring, never armed or armoured, defending himself against whomever they choose." Treville tried not to let his mind linger on the description of the place that had been brought back to him. "He's strong, but his strength must soon fail, to a lucky blow if not to a stronger fighter, else he will fall to untreated injury."

"And Athos?"

"They have him hauling ore at an iron furnace near Chantilly. We could not get closer than to identify him without exposing the scouts. Perhaps they use the same threats on him, but in truth I doubt they're needed. Marchant says his body betrays him, he shakes and faints and does not eat."

"God, give him strength. Will he last?" Yves pressed, his expression horrified.

"The surgeon says his chances are torn," he bit out. "We could give him spirits now and it would either revive him or kill him outright. To keep the drink from him, he would likely never recover himself."

"My God, what a decision." Yves half turned, his expression searching, before coming back to Treville. "Captain... do you not consider these tortures devised for the three quite... astute? They knew they could use d'Artagnan against them, knew their vices and how to make punishment of them."

"You suggest an insider perspective?" Treville posed, already nodding. "I have considered it. The capture of Leon and Marchant last month was far from so well planned. Perhaps this plot has escaped the original architect. The interests of this group are clearly to weaken our forces, to tempt us to a rescue mission and leave the King and Queen poorly attended. They have to know that there is a hunt coming, and with the Inseparables' situations so untenable... they know we will plan to act before the hunt begins."

"They have designed our movements for us, I have never seen a clearer trap. As much as I love my brothers, we must consider whether we can leave our King to what is clearly a planned attack."

"Captain," d'Artagnan's interruption was sharp, and yet at odds with his weakened voice and his boneless slump against the office door. "You cannot seriously be thinking of leaving them!" A handful of Musketeers had gathered in the antechamber behind him, obviously hovering, but none making a move to coax him back to bed.

"You need rest, d'Artagnan," he chided, standing to cross the room. This was no longer a conversation that could be had where listening ears were plenty. "I need you fit when they're brought home, there will be no space in the sick rooms for yourself."

He took d'Artagnan's arm over his shoulder and started him back down the steps as the other Musketeers scattered, wondering how long it had taken him to drag himself up them. His hair was damp and his skin and exposed bandages wet from the persistent rain.

"You expect..." It took d'Artagnan a moment to catch his breath, and Treville gave him time before continuing their slow march back towards the room set aside for healing. "Expect injuries?" he managed eventually, leaning hard into his side as they made it inside. "No one will tell me..."

He broke into coughing, and Treville manhandled him back into the bed as he recovered himself, his hand pressed against the wound to his chest.

"We'll bring them home, d'Artagnan. Beyond that, no one can say."

-

The gangway was empty, the furnace cold. It should have been a relief, Athos' body heat-exhausted and bruised, but the emptiness of his surroundings chilled him. He had never done well alone, not as La Fere, not as Athos of the King's Musketeers. He needed noise and company, even when he wasn't interested in interacting with others. How fortunate he'd been, to find three men who would allow him to share their company and demand nothing in return but his loyalty and the service of his sword. And where were they now? He searched what he could see of the gangway, squinting into the halflight in desperation.

"You search for them like a child, lost in a town square."

He turned, but her voice was still behind him when she continued; "So lost, Athos. So alone."

The furnace was burning now, sparks striking into the sky, but still cold. He was shaking against it, as the ash curled cold fingers around his throat and the barrow in his hands threatened to tip him off the gangway to the ground far below. Her taunts continued, and far away he could feel the others waiting expectantly for his aid.

-

Porthos knew he was dreaming, as he stepped into the edge of the rough sand-filled arena. The seats around him held silent Musketeers, and the image was jarring. Musketeers were only so silent at funerals and at court and this was neither. The arena was much as he had left it earlier that night - empty save from the body of one poor soul and the blood that made the sand dark.

His blade had come hard against Porthos' shoulder - not breaking through but a bloody bruise rich under the skin. The area was hot and itchy still. He hadn't laid another blow on Porthos, and the sight of all that blood spilled from his own hand by a man probably no more a willing participant than himself had made his stomach turn.

Now, though, he watched impassively as another body appeared, and another. The arena was littered with the bodies of men, small and large and armed and not - who had been placed before him with flat accepting eyes, and told to fight or die.

As one they looked up at him and hissed... "Murderer."

-

Adele had never looked so beautiful, dressed for travelling and so perfectly put together as to appear like a painting of a woman - untouchable. He had always preferred to see her debauched and flushed, her hair disarrayed, her feet bare; but he was happy to see even a glimpse of her through the door of her carriage, so he bowed low to the ground without letting his eyes lose sight of her.

The feel of his long coat around his thighs was uncommonly satisfying, like an old friend he had missed, and he waited a moment before standing tall again.

Her eyes had passed over him, her posture unchanged, no warmth or softness in her face - she hadn't seen him. He stepped forward, only a small step. There was a chain trailing behind him into the house, and it held him short.

"Adele!" he called out. She would not pass him by if he could only get her attention. He could still win her back.

She glanced his way, and a guard moved between them. The look on her face turned to disgust. "Well, Aramis," she said, "It seems you've found your rightful occupation." Isabelle's words were sour in her mouth as she lifted her chin disdainfully and turned away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had initially heard 'Flea' as Phyllis, and then had in interesting discussion where the two pronunciations of the name were raised (Phil-is and Phil-ee - the latter being French) and then fandom informed me I had it completely wrong anyway. So... that's that. But I'm still clinging to Phyllis, the infant noble turned child thief.

"Constance," Treville started, his hat in his hands as he stood in the Bonacieux's doorway, but anything further he might have said was interrupted by her gasp.

"No." She whispered it, her hands pressed to her mouth.

"They're alive," he said forcefully, hoping to stop the panic that had already paled her cheeks.

"Where? Hurt?" she pressed, moving forward first, reaching as if to grasp his coat, and then quickly back so that they could both enter the house. "There's been no..."

"Constance, please, let me explain," he broke in. She fell abruptly silent, and in the face of her expectant gaze Treville faltered. He settled his hands on the back of a chair bracing himself. "There's a group plotting to move against the King. They've been taking Musketeers, trying to thin our ranks and leave the King exposed. We've retrieved all until now, but they're getting smarter - better informed. We do not know where they're getting their information."

"And they've taken d'Artagnan?" she asked, still pale but anger starting to clear her panic and firm her countenance.

"No. They tried, and they managed to take the others. D'Artagnan escaped the fight and made it back to the garrison on Athos' horse to warn us," Treville hesitated on what to tell the woman before him, thinking of stumbling from his room at the barracks in the middle of the night to find d'Artagnan bloody and barely conscious, clinging to a horse not his own, rambling about the others. "He's injured, seriously so, but safe in Paris. Our concern now is for the missing."

"What can I do?" Constance said, all traces of panic now gone and replaced with determination. He could so easily see why the Inseparables doted on this woman. "I can sit with d'Artagnan - you need every man. Or... or I can fight for you. You know I'm..."

"Constance," Treville broke in. "What I would ask of you... Please know you can refuse, or change your mind at any time. There are other means..."

"Captain," Constance said firmly, flushing at her own bravery. "Tell me what you want me to do. Please."

-

"Your majesty." It was hard to bow well with two men flanking him with glowering threats of violence, but Treville thought he pulled it off.

The tiny woman sat before him drew to her feet, her face hidden, but her posture proud and unrelenting. "You mock me, Musketeer."

"Far from it," he replied, keeping his tone even. This was a risk, and if the Queen of the Court of Miracles were to take offence while he stood in the centre of her domain, he would surely not make it out unscathed. "I've come to beg for aid."

There's a scoffing noise from all present, but it is the Queen who replies; "A nobleman, begging, here?"

Treville glanced at his boots, suppressing a smile. "You should know," he said, his tone politely conversational, "My family title was bought by my father when I was already a Captain in his majesty's army. It had little meaning to my birth or my youth. I would prefer you think of me as an equal, Phyllis." He was careful to pronounce her name, but not to voice the noble surname that should follow. She had chosen her place here, eschewed family and nobility for whatever reason, but he would not assume that her guards and companions knew of her history or that he had right to reveal it.

Her body language had gone hard, hearing the words he had not spoken. "I was curious," she said, half-turning. "Now I'm simply annoyed."

"I understand the imposition," Treville added hastily, as the guard firmed his grip on his doublet, acting on the unspoken dismissal. "But my men are in need of aid, and my position is regretfully restrained to the King's side at such a time. I would rather be riding out to aid my Musketeers, and instead I stand here before you."

"You stand here before me," Flea repeated, slowly. "Begging." There was a long pause and she turned back towards him. "But why would you beg, nobleman, when you have so much to offer in payment to the Court."

-

Treville was exhausted when he made it back to the garrison, but he had one last favour to ask, one last makeshift soldier to arm, and he could not avoid this last discussion. Jacques was at his side the moment he dismounted, holding his horse and already loosening her bridle and girth as he stepped back. Such an efficient boy, he'd learned so fast.

He followed the boy into the stables, and at his uncertain glance gestured that he should continue in his duties. He carefully paced the length of the stables, checking that there was no soul to overhear their plotting, and rejoined Jacques as he settled the tack on a rail for cleaning.

"Jacques, when your father died in the service of the King's Musketeers I was honoured to take you into the garrison. You've been the hardest working stable boy I have known and hope to one day present you to the King for your commission."

Jacques blushed, ducking his head and shuffling on his feet as he busied his hands with a rag. "Thank you, Captain."

"What I will ask of you now," Treville continued, "I ask with no small amount of trepidation. Know that you can..."

"I'll do it," Jacques interrupted immediately, his eyes up and bright with excitement.

Treville hissed. "Don't interrupt me, boy. You're not a Musketeer yet."

"No, sir," Jacques replied, and as Treville took breath to speak again, continued: "But I'll do it sir. For the inseparables. I'm guessing you'll want me at the foundry, since Mme Bonacieux would be best suited visiting with M. Aramis, and Mlle Phyllis will take her Court friends to watch over M. Porthos."

Treville tried, in vain, to hide his utter surprise at the pronouncement. "Jacques... one day you will make a great Musketeer. At the least, your gift for eavesdropping will stand you in good stead." He added the last under his breath.

"You'll remember, sir, I rode with you in aid of the queen." Of course. There was nothing like a dashing rescue and a close-quarters gunfight to give a boy ideas far above his station. And to think Treville had promised his father he'd be protected.

"Finish your day's work, Jacques," he dismissed him. "And meet me at the Bonacieux's tonight. Speak of this to no one."

-

There was a single bottle of wine allotted for their shift of workers. There were twenty of them in all, between the cutters, the charcoal makers, the waterwheel attendant and the men who moved the dangerous pig iron, and the barrowsmen who loaded the furnace with ore and charcoal and lime, all day long.

There was a barrel of watery beer as well, but the wine was the most bitterly fought over.

Food, wine and beer were all delivered unsorted, to a melee of grasping hands. Anyone too slow got nothing for the day.

Athos had been astonished and horrified by this show of chaos when he had first arrived, but after a day going hungry and shaking until he was sick, he had succumbed to the madness of it and charged in. The wine was his ultimate goal, of course, but if he could defend enough food he could barter for a cup. From time to time he wondered if it would be better, be easier to go without rather than string his addiction on, but he was never more functional than after that one drink, and he needed to be functional if he was going to reach the others.

-

There was meat and wine laid out every morning when Porthos rose, but the door was still locked and the high windows of his underground prison still barred. He ate and drank because to be weak would be to court death, and he had friends out there who need his help. And because he would face another opponent tonight and the most mercy he could show them was a swift death and no suffering.

Every evening he was offered a woman's company, and he accepted purely for someone to talk to. Sometimes the woman was interested in sex, sometimes not, but the company was a balm to his soul. It was never the same woman twice, and he was reluctant to think about why that might be. Two of them were willing to tell him more about the building in which he was being held, the guards and where they were stationed, the weapons stored out of sight.

He collected the information like the most precious of gems and waited - for his next fight, and for an opportunity. He didn't dare think of the possibility of 'too late', or d'Artagnan languishing injured in some cage.

-

The bath was a lavish, unexpected thing. Aramis was making good money for the management here, or so he was told as he never saw a sou, and their esteemed clients preferred a clean body to make unclean themselves. Objection hadn't even occurred to him; when he'd been shown the steaming water he had stripped naked except for the chain at his ankle, and felt no shame for his body exposed in front of the woman who saw to his wellbeing.

The sickness that had roiled in his stomach since he first arrived here was briefly tempered by the heat of the water - already cooling - and he took to scrubbing himself clean with the utmost enthusiasm.

He secreted curls of soap, scraped from the bar with his fingernail, deep in his hair for use in working loose the shackle on his ankle later in the night, and tried to swallow down the guilt at enjoying such a reward when the others were not likely to be being treated so well.


	4. Chapter 4

Constance came alert at the knock on her door, realising she had been folding the same shift for the past who knows how many minutes, time lost in part to worry and in part to the glorious swordfight, imaged in her mind's eye. The scene had become her favourite daydream, embellished a little more every time she was fortunate enough to watch d'Artagnan with a sword in his hand and leaning heavily on the lessons he had shared before they separated.

She rushed to the door, taking a moment to compose herself and smooth her skirts straight before opening it.

She was presented with a tiny woman in a ragged dress with a pistol nearly completely concealed in her skirts, a glimpse of embroidered and patterned leather evidence of a holster. Her hair was tangled and high, and she seemed to Constance like a pixie from the fairytales of her youth, come to take her away to adventure and danger. Those stories were always supposed to carry a warning, but she and her brothers had spent many long summer days ruining outfits in hedgerows seeking such an imp.

Constance was simultaneously envious of the life this woman had led and guilty at thinking such a thing. There was no doubt her life had been hard, and the pistol was not carried for entertainment's sake.

"I'm Flea," the pixie announced, stepping past her without further introduction, leaving Constance standing in the doorway at a loss.

"Bonacieux," she managed, following the pixie named Flea into her home. "Are you expected? My husband isn't here right now."

"Treville sent me," she muttered with dismissive rudeness, looking around at the simple parlour. Constance wondered what she saw in the simple life of a tailor's wife, this pixie who would refer to the Captain with so little respect.

"My apologies," Constance managed, not entirely able to bite back her affronted tone. "I'm not used to... all this."

"It appears not," the pixie intoned, her expression full of disdain. There was a long bristling moment between the two women before Constance remembered her manners.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she offered, forcing her tone cordial.

"I..." The haughty gaze briefly gave way to nervous vulnerability, and Constance was suddenly, sharply aware that she was not the only one new to the cloak and dagger routine.

"Wine perhaps," she prompted, more gently this time.

"Please," Flea nodded, taking a seat at the table. Her expression had hardened once more, but now that Constance was looking more closely, more empathetically, she could see the edges of the mask.

"Your holster," Constance said as she poured two cups of wine. As she sought the rest of the sentence, Flea stiffened and looked down at the elegantly stitched leather that lay on top of her skirts now as she sat, at odds with the blunt object within. "It's beautiful," Constance added, flustered. "Where did you get it?" The sheer surprise on the other woman's face pleased Constance a great deal.

Within a beat the surprise had turned to a conspiratorial grin. "There's a woman from Nantes, she brings beautiful leatherware to the market on the first friday of every month. She claims it is her husband's work, that she represents him at the market, but I know it to be her own."

"It must have cost a small fortune, such delicate stitchwork," Constance leaned forwards as Flea unbuckled the belt and let her admire it.

"She's easily distracted," Flea said with a shrug, and there was a second knock at the door before Constance could wonder what relevance that had on the price.

"Captain!" she greeted at the door, nodding a greeting to the two Musketeers who flanked him. It was going to be a tight fit in her small parlour, but at least Flea didn't take up much room. It wasn't until everyone was inside that she noticed the young man who followed in Treville's shadow.

"Mme. Bonacieux, Constance," Treville greeted with a short bow, not taking a seat but remaining on his feet. Flea had stood as the others had entered, and moved back nearly into the shadows as the room had filled. "Thank you for hosting us tonight."

Constance had a little thrill - yes, *she* was hosting them, this secret rescue party. Not her husband, but she.

Treville half-turned towards Flea and bowed all the deeper. "Your Majesty," he greeted. His tone was no less courteous, and Constance felt her stomach flop - majesty?

Treville did not give her time to ask, but continued; "Should we wish this plan to work - to retrieve my men and to cease this assault against the King's Musketeers, secrecy must be our highest priority."

-

The shift change was the thing, ever chaotic and bumbling. There was no way to guard such a mass movement of bodies, and so the sentries focused instead on the tools and materials that would be of worth to a thief, and on the outer doors. Athos was sure he was not the only worker here under duress, but there were those who received meagre pay for their toils, and would be unlikely to involve themselves if he started a small disturbance in the hope of a riot.

He could only hope to get enough support to allow him to slip away.

He was relying on his brothers being close at hand, he knew he was risking d'Artagnan's life by such an escape attempt, but he could ill afford to wait any longer should he hope to remain strong enough to act. If he could kill enough guards and keep his absence from being reported, Athos would have time to find the young Musketeer before those who held him acted on their threats.

The bottle of wine had been his that morning - hard fought for, his arm and shoulder were bruised and sore, but his body was briefly sated, if not fed. The rush drove away his lurking wife, and his brother's bloodied face in every window, steeled him against the shakes that would not cease.

He wasted no time on food, leaving the others from his shift eating as he shouldered his way into the shift returning from their work to take the freed beds. Their noises were at first disgruntled, and then annoyed, hands starting to grab and shove as he made sure every other blow went awry and caused more dissent. By the time the guards had noticed the rabble forming, Athos' shift were piling in behind him, sparking tempers and high spirits in equal measure.

It didn't take much to push the crowd towards the guards, though he took a couple of good hits along the way, and suddenly he was on the edge of the action. He staggered from the crowd, making sure to keep his movements dazed as he fell against the newly unguarded outer door.

Perhaps he was truly more dazed than he thought, as the door deposited him on his back on the floor. The cool air was a relief after the glut of people, but the yard outside the bunker was not as empty as he had hoped, and he surged to his feet as a guard came at him, sword drawn.

-

The opportunity came to Porthos all-at-once, the fightmaster's back turned and no guards in reach. They would chase him, of course, and did as soon as he bolted for the second entrance. The upper rooms were silent and empty this early in the day, gloomy without torchlight and threateningly reminiscent of his nightmares. He skirted the edges of the fighting ring at a run and was at the back door before the guards had made it to the top of the stairs.

He had half a dozen different descriptions of the way out into the street from the ladies who had visited with him, and he'd managed to catch glimpses of at least the first stage of every route, so he ducked into the hallway without hesitation and made a hard right turn down a corridor that should lead him into the kitchens.

There was a mop inside the door as he barged through, relieved to find the space empty, and he grabbed it as a makeshift staff, breaking off the head with a stamp as the first guard appeared. The doorway choked their entrance, and he downed the first with a smart smack across the head, forcing the second to leap his body. The move put the guard off balance, and Porthos threw him into the heavy door, adding a punch to keep him down.

There were more guards in the hallway already, but the first two blocked the way and Porthos took off again. There was a house opposite, and one of his companions had sworn she had seen a man fitting d'Artagnan's description there, peering from the windows. She had been nearly delirious with wine when she had arrived, but her description of the kitchen was perfect and so he had no reason to doubt that d'Artagnan too would be exactly where she said he was.

He charged out into the open, downing another guard with his staff, and disarming a second before he had a chance to leap at him. The man cried out as his sword fell from limp fingers, but was immediately on Porthos, his heavy fists flying. He landed more than one hit to Porthos' already tender skull before he was unlucky enough to make contact with one of the shackles Porthos had been unable to shed from around his wrists, and fell back clutching his hand. Porthos swept his feet from under him and ran for the house he could see.

He near enough fell through the door, shouting for d'Artagnan, only to find himself faced with a tavern full of men, all armed and not one of them a friend.

-

The soap, while it had stung his ragged skin beneath the metal, had eased the passage of the shackle over Aramis' heel, and at last he had some good firm information for where d'Artagnan might be being held while the young Musketeer recuperated from the injury that had been inflicted on him. They had reassured him in those first few days that so long as he stayed quiet and compliant, d'Artagnan would get the best of care, and it hadn't taken much charm and discussion of his own healing skills to get his guard and attendant to tell him about the surgeon in town, the rooms he used for healing.

He sounded like a quack, but that was nothing but bigger motivation to get them all away from this place. He didn't know where the others were, he hoped to God with every breath and heartbeat that they weren't in another room like this one, suffering through these trials.

It took time to recover himself after his last visitor had departed, to focus past the hazy shock of unwanted contact and remember the plan. He wouldn't be disturbed again tonight, and his room would go unchecked until the afternoon. It was the matter of a moment to slip the shackle and gather the measley clothes he had been allowed. They were thin, barely more than underclothes, and would provide no protection in a fight, but if his plan was successful he wouldn't take a single blow. He was lucky that the fashion of the moment was for dark cloth, which would aid in his concealment.

He slipped to the window - further than his chain had allowed him before now, and the best chance he'd had to look at his preferred escape route. Preferred only in the sense that it was the most likely to be successful, he glanced down the drop to the porch overhang below and felt the first quail of apprehension. The latch on the window was sticky, but gave under a sharp elbow, and he touched a hand to where his cross should hang before climbing up onto the sill and scrambling out.

The drop was far from as bad as he had expected, and the porch roof had better grip on his bare feet. The night was cold - something he had not considered in his plan - but as he dropped to the ground and grimaced at the dirty streets, he knew he could manage it. The rush of the escape was already warming him from within, and he counted doors to identify his target before darting from the shadow of the porch and into the night.

The surgeon's house of healing was well marked, and though his feet felt quite disgusting and he was shivering in the cold, he firmed himself at the door. He would knock, and if there was a guard within he would fight, but he suspected there was not. They were relying strongly on the leverage provided by d'Artagnan's precarious position to keep Aramis meek and unacting. He was finished with meek and unacting.

He knocked, stepping in beside the door so that he would be concealed from the light cast from within. There was a rattle inside, but before the door could open there was the more distinct sound of a pistol cocked at his back.


	5. Chapter 5

Treville had not liked the barracks assigned to the garrison when it had first been presented to him as their new home. Its courtyard was pokey, the passageway to the stables too tight for nervous horses and there wasn't anything even resembling kitchens - Serge had been offended on his behalf, and had dragged in a dozen workmen to rectify this last fault.

What there was, was an office to suit a General.

The first time he'd stood in the antechamber, looking into the space that was his and his alone, he felt like the nobility that had come to his family so late had finally settled on his shoulders. There was no pretensions, no marble busts or white tile. Only wood and space enough to address a troupe of men, advance warning of any enquiries through the undeniable racket of boots on the stairs, a room which caught every whisper spoken in the courtyard, and best of all, a platform from which to stand over his men and remind them why he was in charge.

He stood there now, on the turn of the stairs, appreciating the space all the more as men packed into the courtyard, jostling for elbow room. They were worried, with whispers of a threat great enough to down four of their best and keep them down, and worried Musketeers meant trouble without a firm hand.

Not for the first time, he wondered how the Inseparables had avoided any of the jealousy it would have been all too easy for them to garner. They worked hard for their positions, but concealed that hard work behind a façade of booze, fights, and very public dalliances with unavailable women. Despite it all, they remained favourites, not only to himself and more recently the King, but to their brothers in arms.

If only he could be sure that this would soon be just another adventure, to be told ad nauseum, gathering ever more unlikely embellishments. Right now his priority had to be getting them home safe, so he could hear those stories told, without risking the King.

"As you know," he started, the crowd falling immediately silent. "There is a force out there acting against us, and against the King. If we are to defeat this threat, it is essential that we act as one body, as one mind, as brothers. We have three days before the King's hunting party leaves the palace. That means three days to ride out, rescue our men and return here. There will be four Musketeers staying to watch over the King while we travel, the rest of us ride out in one hour."

Treville paused in his speech, still unsure but unwilling to show it. This information could throw the Musketeers before him into turmoil, but to share it was the only way to be sure... He took a breath. "Gentlemen... we believe there to be a spy amongst us." The resounding hiss and stamp of discontent nearly shook the barracks to its foundations, and Treville was gratified to hear such disagreement. "No other way can we explain how we have been targeted," he explained. "And so to ensure we are not intercepted in our rescue attempt, we will be split into three groups blindly. Serge has straws - Yves will tell you where each colour is to meet. You will speak of your assignment to no one, Musketeer or otherwise; it is the only way to ensure our rescue attempts will not be intercepted. Travel to the meeting points alone, travel armed, and be prepared to ride long into the night. We ride to bring them home." The rousing cry of agreement washed against his back as he turned to reascend the stairs to his office, Yves taking his place on the stairs to call out the colour assignments as the Musketeers started drawing coloured straws from Serge's massive hand.

The use of coloured straws was a stroke of genius from Flea, a cunning way to conceal until the last moment the large number of men who would never leave Paris, but instead lay in wait for the presumed assassin. With hope, it would convince their spy, and through them the assassin's company that they were leaving the King poorly guarded, and they would give up the three men they held captive with barely a fight, only enough to delay the Musketeers' return to Paris. There would only be five men riding out in aid of each of the Inseparables - still enough of their company to leave Treville nervous - but if their captors put up any kind of fight, or those parties he had sent to infiltrate their way to the Inseparables' sides were identified...

No, he couldn't consider it further. Treville had to believe that this plan would work, else he was sending three very poorly manned rescue teams, two women and a stable boy to the rescue of his three best Musketeers.

-

"M. Athos," the voice called, layered above all the others clamouring for his attention. This new voice was like a clear bell, somehow cutting through his wife's cruel mockery and his father's disdainful asides, Thomas ever silent but lips thin and bitter, harder to ignore for that.

His back ached from the tension required to keep him on his feet, and his hands were clawed around the barrow's handles, broken callouses staining the wood with blood and plasma and bruises standing stark against ever paler skin. He didn't turn to look at this new hallucination, he couldn't - it would surely throw his balance such that he would fall and he wasn't entirely sure he would regain his feet.

It wasn't until he reached the top of the chimney and unloaded his barrow that he was forced to turn and face the newest spectre. At the sight of Jacques, alien in the thick wool and protective leather of a foundryworker, he nearly stumbled, swallowing against the thickness in his throat.

"M. Athos, please," Jacques' voice was persistent, and Athos' hands were shaking again. He couldn't collapse here, on the narrowest part of the gangway. If he fell he would surely meet the ground far below, and then who would rescue d'Artagnan and the others?

He firmed his grip on the barrow's handles; he had to ignore the illusions that haunted his steps, that taunted and mocked. He made it out of the peak of the chimney's heat, passing the erstwhile stable boy with firmed steps, only to stumble to a halt as a hand settled on his arm.

He took a moment to enjoy the movement of cool air around him, breathing as softly as he could manage through the hammering of his heart. "Begone, wraith," he hissed, without daring look down at the hand grasping his coat.

"I have water, M. Athos," Jacques said, with more meaning implied than the word 'water' should convey.

Athos' befuddled mind caught the sharp scent of wine, acidic and rich, and risked to turn. The barrow Jacques had been pushing was abandoned by the mouth of the furnace, and he was offering a cup with both hands. Another barrowman was starting down the gangway, staring at them curiously, and Athos reached out to take the cup.

It was not water in that cup. Not water at all.

-

Porthos' fists were bloody and his head spinning from one too many blows. He'd been sick once already, thin and weedy for not having taken food after his escape attempt the day before. He'd been supposed to throw this fight, he remembered now as he staggered out of the heated roaring of the ring. He'd been too involved in protecting himself to remember in the heat of the moment, but he remembered now and knew more punishment would follow.

He felt weak, and he tried to cling to the images around him as they flickered in and out of sight. It was essential that he saw everything, for the next chance to escape. It would only take a small slip, and he had heard nothing of retaliation on d'Artagnan, which would surely be a cause for boasting, had they killed him.

He studied the servants entrance carefully through vision made blurry by his addled head. It was his second option - the first had been no good, but he knew more now. Some fresh air would sweep the hazy clouds from his mind and he found himself leaning towards that open door, wobbling towards the scent of open air. His guard caught hold of his torn shirt collar, and he stumbled to one knee, retching again.

The guard stepped hastily back with a colourful curse, and deep in his mind a voice that sounded like d'Artagnan at his most chiding pointed out how perfect this moment would be for escape. He would be right, if only the ground would stop in its swaying for a moment.

"My God," an acerbic voice drawled as he choked and retched. "I know you said he was prime for sale, but I didn't realise you meant for the butcher's block."

"Get him off the floor, you idiot," another voice snarled, and Porthos was hauled back to his feet, his head spinning all the more. "Forgive me, Madam. After a hard fight every man looks weakened. I assure you, he's fighting stronger than ever. He has incredible stamina."

Porthos forced his back straight, ashamed by his weakness in front of a lady, and focused his swaying vision down on the woman beside his fightmaster. "Of that I have no doubt." Flea shared her most conniving grin, and Porthos did his best to smile back as the world blackened around him.

-

"This visitor is a strange one, M. Aramis." Soft hands coaxed his head up to poor warm water across it, cleaning away soap. Aramis had no curiosity left in him for the strange, for anything really. "Brings a manservant with her, and no ladies at all! She says her man will wait in the room while you see her. How very odd they are, these nobility."

He was turned that way and this, examined and determined to be clean. A bigger pair of hands appeared to haul him from the bath, and he didn't fight the relocation, better not to fight these things. "I've explained to her that her man's not to touch you, else that's extra. She looked so offended, I felt sure she'd not even thought such a thing possible." A towel was wrapped around him, rubbed as though he were hypothermic and his blood in need of stimulation. A comb started on his hair - a thankless task he knew from long experience, but the tugging pain was a nice counterpoint to the day.

"I do wish you'd say something, M. Aramis. We used to have such good conversations, you and I. This maudlin sulking does nothing for your handsome countenance." A heated cloth settled across his face, and his beard suffered a sharp tug. "Perhaps we should shave this all off." A blade settled on his skin, scraping away the day's new growth. "You'd look younger, I think." There was a gut-deep clench of disagreement, but he could not bring himself to express more. Moments later, or maybe hours with that blade against his skin, there was a chime from the clock in the hall (just out past that to the window, drop onto the lower roof at the rear of the house, then across to the next building. Stables last on the left, and the surgeons house where they were keeping d'Artagnan...) "Perhaps tomorrow. I'll ask this client what she thinks, if she doesn't complain overly about you lying there like a beached fish."

His chin was lifted, clasped lightly once, fingers running over clean shaven cheeks. "Play nicely."

There was quiet for a moment longer, spent picturing every step of the route to where d'Artagnan was being held (had to be held) and then the door, one light pair of feet, one heavy. There was the idea of bright Musketeer blue in the corner of his eye as he let it wash over him and his fantasy world drag him down.

In the moments before he reached insensibility, he heard quite clearly a sob. "Oh, Aramis."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left messages and encouragement. This is it, no encores. I've not left them in perfect condition, they've got a long way to go, but they've got each other and that counts for a lot. I'd love to hear your final thoughts, enjoy!

"He was just... like a broken doll." It wasn't the first time Constance said it, and she didn't think it would be the last as she watched Flea pace the length of her parlour. There was no place in the garrison for women, and they had grudgingly agreed that they would meet their young spy back here once he had returned from his fact finding mission. There had been no word on the rescued Musketeers since they had returned them to their brothers and an attendant surgeon in the early hours of the morning.

"Who could do that to a man... To any person? Who would take pleasure in forcing themselves on..." There were tears in her eyes, and Flea deviated in her path to grasp her upper arms, bringing her words to a stop.

"Be thankful for the life you've lived," she said shortly. "And put it from your mind now. Aramis has a strong will, he must to bear the company of those three. He would not like to think of you distraught over his misfortune, and he will not thank you for lingering on the thought or hurting yourself over it."

"And I suppose it's that easy for you?" Constance pulled her arms free roughly, and turned to straighten the tablecloth for want of something to do, an excuse to look away from the other woman. "So easy to ignore Porthos' hurts, to put it from your mind?"

"Porthos' hurts are the least of my worries, he's a thick skulled and softhearted buffoon - his hurts will heal. It will be the deaths at his hands that will stay with him."

Constance's hands stilled, then came briefly to cover her mouth, pressing back a sob. "I'm an idiot," she sighed, when she was sure the sob would not escape her. She took a seat at the table. "I hadn't even..." Her hands returned to her mouth, pressing hard to keep her composure. "You know," she said, firming her voice. "When I first heard of a fighting ring, I imagined a place like the courtyard of the garrison, where men would lunge at one another and laugh when they missed. Sometimes they'd get hurt or bloodied, especially when they were being stupid or arguing, but..." She laughed thinly. "How naive I must seem to you. How naive those thoughts seem to me now."

Flea pressed her hand over the top of Constance's on the table, squeezed gently. "This life has never been your life. The men who involve you in their reckless games know that. If you continue to let them drag you into this world you are now beginning to glimpse, you will need to harden your skin and your heart against it, and you may need to acquire a new skill or two."

Constance blushed, thinking of Aramis' sword in her hand, her opponent at her feet. "I started to learn to fight with a sword," she admitted, feeling delightfully reckless telling a near stranger this. But this was a stranger who carried a pistol at her hip and helped the Captain plan complicated rescues without any suggestion that he might not take her advice. "And to shoot a pistol."

Flea gave her an assessing look, and then nodded her approval. "I'm a poor show with a sword, but I can best most of the men in my company with a pistol. We should train our skills together, you and I." There was a knock at the door, and both tensed until Jacques called out for Mme. Bonacieux.

"Perhaps we should invite our young spy too," Constance said as she passed Flea on the way to the door. "He seems eager enough, and not likely to declare us witches or heretics for wanting to take up arms in our own defence."

Flea followed her into the hall, and they both stared dumbly as they opened the door to find the young stable boy holding a large pair of boots to his chest.

"Jacques, what are you doing with those boots?" Constance asked finally, inviting the boy in.

"With Porthos' boots," Flea added.

"Ah... well..." Jacques stumbled over his words, looking about uncomfortably. "The Captain said I was to remove them from his and M. Athos' room, as he kept crossing the hall to check on M. d'Artagnan and M. Aramis, and the surgeon wished him to rest, but you said I was to visit you as soon as I had leave to go, and the boots, you see, I had to take them from his room but the Captain didn't specify where to put them... so I..." He looked down at the boots in his white-knuckled grip. "Madames," his voice dropped to a hiss. "I think I stole M. Porthos' boots."

The laughter between the two women was a bright and cleansing thing, as the poor boy stared with terror at his accidental prize.

-

The punishing heat of the furnace was tempered against his skin - perhaps he had collapsed to the shakes inside the shelter of the storage bunker. But no, a mattress beneath him, and a blanket over him. His hands were still when he held them in front of his bleary eyes.

Beyond his hands, warm wood and the distant sounds of swords colliding. The richest of hallucinations, this. That of home.

A groan beside him caught his attention, and he fought his way up onto the perch of his elbow, his every muscle aching with fatigue, and his head spinning. The bed beside his was occupied, and it took less than a heart's beat to identify its occupant.

"Porthos?" he managed, and the dry catch in his throat surprised him. How long had he slept, that the rescuing was all done and him none the wiser?

Porthos' eyes opened, one more than its blackened and swollen counterpart, and he smiled. "Look who's awake," he murmured, his voice no less wrecked.

Further realisation was slow to come, he was embarrassed to recall later, or maybe what Aramis said was true and he saw some reassurance in Porthos' ease that bypassed his mind and set his soul at rest, but it was a long moment before Athos jerked forwards, his body straining against himself as he sat up.

"D'Artagnan? Aramis?"

"In the next room," Porthos reassured. "Recovering." His brow furrowed, and Athos felt his stomach roll steeply. "They will be glad to see you awake," was all Porthos added.

Athos studied Porthos' battered form from his new position, and bit his tongue from asking the extent of his injuries. If they didn't bear mentioning, there was nothing to say. That was always how it had been between the three of them, for injuries of the body and of the soul, and Athos wouldn't dare suggest his friend was anything but fighting fit if he hadn't been told better.

Instead he pushed himself awkwardly to the edge of the bed and stood. He gained altitude slowly as his head adjusted and spots danced in his vision.

"Hey now, where are you off to?"

"First," Athos said, trusting to his own uncertain balance long enough to spy his boots and doublet and cross the room to them. The descent into the chair beside the door was rather more fall than sit, but it gave him access to his boots, which he would not have been able to bend to from standing. "First to reassure myself that our friends are well, then to find a drink. I'm..." He considered his hands a moment, gratified that they had yet to start shaking with any intensity. "Parched."

Porthos got to his feet with the movements of someone in a great deal of pain, and Athos worried briefly that a fast movement on his part would be required to save his brother an upset, but Porthos' balance was for the moment the better, and he crossed the room to lean heavily against the door frame with limping but confident strides.

"Think I'll join you," he mused, sounding breathless but grinning as if they were staging their own escape.

Best not to ask if they'd been told to remain abed - the better to deny all knowledge - though he was beginning to worry that he might have slept a marked length for Porthos to be so much better informed.

Athos pulled his boots on without falling from the chair - an achievement, he felt - and then wondered, bemused, at Porthos' bare feet. "Where are your boots?" he asked.

"We're not going far," Porthos replied casually, offering Athos a bandaged hand. He stood using the wall instead, preferring to cause offence than to add pain. "Are you ready?"

Without waiting for his answer, Porthos half-opened the door to glance out, and then moved with speed across the hall. Athos stepped out into the hall behind him, and closed the door to their room. He used the moment alone to pull his tattered edges back around him, straightening his back with some force of will before crossing the hall after Porthos.

-

The smile that Porthos forced onto his face was a practised one, and on any other day he knew it'd not have a chance of fooling either of the men who knew him best in the world. But Athos was grey and wan, and trembled intermittently like someone was shaking his bones from within. And Aramis...

Aramis was sitting on the bed he had been assigned, as he had been at Porthos' last escape. His back was pressed to the corner of the room, his knees to his chest and one hand wrapped around the bandage that covered his only external injury - the chafing of the iron band that had held him.

He didn't look up when Porthos entered, but d'Artagnan did, his grin bright if brittle. "The Captain will have your skin," he said, coughing lightly into his sleeve. "Where are your boots?"

"I brought a visitor," Porthos said, instead of admitting that his boots had been confiscated - who knew where - in an attempt to keep him in bed. He was just in time as Athos stepped in behind him. He'd puffed himself up for the boy, but still looked like death.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan greeted, tone ever brighter. "You're awake!"

"Evidently," Athos returned dryly, but his gaze had settled on Aramis and did not waver.

Porthos watched as Athos reacquainted himself with melancholic Aramis, a man they saw rarely in their friend's cheerful disposition. This was perhaps a stage beyond anything they had ever witnessed, Aramis entirely withdrawn into himself, though Athos may not have realised that yet. This subdued character was far more familiar in Athos' form.

Letting Athos stare, Porthos moved to slump onto d'Artagnan's bed, resting his aching bones. D'Artagnan himself grumbled a complaint, but pulled himself into a sitting position so as to give Porthos a little more room. Unfortunately the shift came with a return of his cough, pinching his lips and paling his skin. Porthos pulled the blankets back up around him, scowling at him until the coughing petered out again.

Left with no choice, the room bereft of chairs (another move in aid of stopping Porthos' wandering), Athos settled awkwardly onto the end of Aramis' bed. Porthos knew the two would migrate towards each other as the time went on, but for now propriety and the knowledge that he had no permission to share his space lead Athos to give Aramis more room than he needed.

"I have no desire to talk of the last few days," Athos said, sighing and resting back against the wall, "And so I'll do you the honour of not asking where you have been or how you are hurt." He glanced at Aramis, and then away. "Only I must ask... Porthos, *where* are your boots?"

-

The room was better, brighter than before. Rescue was still forefront in his mind, and his careful work had loosened the shackle to almost nothing. D'Artagnan had still to be his highest priority, he had been hurt and could not be left alone for so long. But it was his voice he heard laughing, so maybe he was close. Aramis was so tired, action seemed almost insurmountable. But if d'Artagnan was laughing, maybe it would be safe for him to rest a moment.

There was a familiar rhythm to the voice which answered that laughter, a warm drawl from closer still, and d'Artagnan was still laughing. The shackle around his ankle was falling away, and he was so tired.

A hand fell onto his own, and he clenched it around the shackle, hoping to hide his work, but there was no metal under his fingers, and the skin was raw and tender, and it was Athos' voice that told him to leave it be.

He trusted Athos, so he let his hand fall away.

He was so tired, but he couldn't rest while there was still a rescue to plan. He needed to focus, to look and absorb and pay attention, because it was Porthos calling his name and he needed to... he needed... Oh.

His eyes came to focus on Athos' hand against his own, a familiar pattern of scars across his knuckles. He followed the hand up the arm to the man himself, the effort of moving his head almost unassailable. The room was small, barely any distance between the two beds that filled it, but his joints felt like they were made of stone, and they creaked as he turned his head to find Porthos and d'Artagnan sitting across from him. Together. Whole. And watching him with some curiosity.

"You should know..." His voice felt like dust in his throat, and he cleared it half-heartedly. "There was a rescue planned all along."

"You were pre-empted," Athos said, moving subtly closer so that their shoulders touched. "We are rescued. We shall find someone to ask how later, for now you should rest."

"That sounds altogether too pleasant," Aramis agreed, and made good use of Athos' shoulder as his mind dragged his heavy head down.

-

"He's out of bed again," Jacques reported from the door to the Captain's office, hesitant on the threshold and still clasping a pair of boots as he had been for the last day, like some kind of totem. It had taken some impressive ingenuity for him to carry out his daily tasks without letting them out of his sight, and Treville would have offered to keep them safe for him if he hadn't been so amused by the image the boy presented. "M. Athos is with him."

"My time is better taken working than mothering wayward Musketeers," Treville returned without more than a glance up from the missive on his desk, as though he hadn't spent the last few days mothering to the best of his abilities. "Besides, they are the best balm for each other's hurts now."

As Jacques darted back down the stairs, his adolescent gait clattering, Treville allowed himself just a moment to smile.

And then he got back to work.


End file.
